


Freed

by learninghowtosmut



Series: Veiled [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Modern Era, Protective Siblings, Returning Home, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-01 17:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13299894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learninghowtosmut/pseuds/learninghowtosmut
Summary: After growing up under the thumb of the Ottoman Empire, Romano finally returns home to a unified Italy. This new freedom, however, comes with all kinds of new troubles.





	1. Chapter 1

It is a shock to his system when he finally, _finally_ is free. He’s been following the whispers that circulate, the progress of the Italian army on their path to Rome. He can feel the pull of opposing forces on his people and on his land and on his borders and he thinks he could be dreaming when he realises that he’s _free_ . When the announcement comes, he freezes, lifts a hand to the mouth that is still shielded by the sheer fabric - he’s the only one, now, to be dressed like this, the only one to be marked out in these clothes - and tries to remember how to breathe.  
  
_He can go home_ .  
  
It takes a couple of months to make all the arrangements, and time alternates without warning from dizzying speed to torturous slowness and back again. Romano himself is torn between wanting desperately to be home, to be on his own soil _now now now_ , and wanting everything to stop, for fear of what changes might come.  
  
With a united Italy, would he even survive? Would there be a place for him? Or would he just disappear?  
  
He’s given more clothes, similar to those of the men he’s ‘entertained’ recently. There are layers and layers of them and nothing flows, nothing billows. Parts of the fabric are stiff in a way he’s not felt since _that day_ when he was abandoned by _that bastard_ . It feels tight, too tight. He plucks at the fabric in the hope he can make some space to breathe.  
  
His face is naked.  
  
At first, he relishes the freedom that it means; he no longer belongs to anyone. He doesn’t have to bow to the whims of anyone who tries to order him. He doesn’t need to bend any more. He can stand tall and proud and let himself be himself again.  
  
But then he leaves his room for the last time. He abruptly feels exposed. Vulnerable. _Everyone_ can see him.  
  
He spends the whole trip hidden behind his hands or hiding away in his cabin. The salt air is dirtied by soot belched out by the ship’s engine room and there isn’t anywhere he can get away from people to let it all sink in. He yearned to be out, to be looking over the stars reflected on the surface of the sea that had shaped so much of his history, but everywhere he looked, there was always _someone_ there. So he stayed in his cabin, where it was safe. Where he could _lock his door_ . Where he could be alone, truly alone, and not have to worry about someone coming in to give him orders or to try to take something from him.  
  
This is his first time leaving Constantinople since his arrival as a small, furious child. It is the day he’s _dreamt_ of ever since he first arrived, so why isn’t he making the most of it? Why isn’t he going out and breathing the air that he’s missed so dearly, with strong winds whipping at his hair and blowing salty spray into his face with enough force to sting?  
  
Every time he leaves the cabin, he manages to make it a little further, but then he hears a voice that vaguely resembles one he heard decades ago, or he catches sight of a face that looks like one of the guards who once loomed over him and dragged him by the wrist, or he hears _that_ tread that he _knows_ , that he instinctively wants to run from, and he scuttles back to safety. As self-imposed cages go, this isn’t a bad one, anyway. He’s got a fine room, bigger than most of the tiny glorified cupboards that most passengers will be getting on this trip. He has a window that looks over the sea and he can catch the glitter of sunlight in the evening. When one of the crew comes to knock on his door each evening, telling him that dinner is ready and that he has a place waiting at the Captain’s table with the rest of his ‘diplomatic group’, he turns his face away or hides it behind his hands. He knows that this is probably rude, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s had to be polite to people who make his skin crawl for so long; the freedom to simply do what will make him comfortable is a heady one. He turns down the invitation every morning, noon, and night. It isn’t like he’d want to go, even if he didn’t have this burning vulnerability; everyone else at that table knows _exactly_ what he is. They all know exactly what he’s done. Most of them have had him at one point or another.  
  
What will Veneziano think? After everything he’s done?  
  
It is with a sinking feeling that he accepts that his brother will be ashamed to be seen with him. He’ll be pushed off to live in some country home, assuming he survives this unification. He’ll live unseen and unacknowledged. Still, compared to what he’s coming from, that wouldn’t be so bad at all. Nobody would want anything from him. Nobody would take anything he didn’t want to give. There would be no expectations or external forces on his behaviour. He could just be _Italia Romano_ . Maybe he’d even assume a human identity and put everything behind him.  
  
As he prepares to leave the ship, he grabs a newspaper to hide his face behind. He trails apart from the rest of the Ottoman group. He is ignored and invisible as he goes down the gangplank, just another person in the crowd.  
  
The feeling of stepping onto his own land is almost enough to make him weep, to drop to his knees and kiss the docks. He can hear _his own language_ being spoken by _his own people_ all around him. He can smell the fish and the sea and the warm breeze coming off it to cool _his city_ .  
  
He is _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

He can only last so long through the big official celebration before he slips away and escapes into the dark gardens. It’s strange for him to be on this side of service, having people treating him like he’s some kind of figure of authority. He has nothing to hide behind, nothing to shield himself from their eyes. It’s stifling. Nobody lets him be alone or go off to talk to the one person here he actually wants to see, so he just… escapes. He almost can’t believe that he has the freedom to do that now.   
  
Romano pulls off his shoes and peels off his socks, stuffing them into the toes before leaving them near a doorway.   
  
The air is hot and thick, but a light breeze plays with his hair and brushes gently past him. The sounds from the party are muted and faint, fading away behind the sound of the insects and other nocturnal wildlife around him. A smile touches the corners of his lips as he scrunches his toes into the dirt - into  _ his _ dirt - and decides a random direction to walk in.    
  
The moon is bright, the stars clear.   
  


Footsteps pound towards him. He turns his head, but all he can see is a silhouette against the building’s lights.    
  
“Romano!” A pair of arms hug him tight enough to choke the breath out of his lungs. “I missed you so much!”   
  
He struggles a little bit against the hold, just enough to loosen the death grip hug and turn around to face him so he can hug back. “Vene? Are you - are you  _ crying? _ ”   
  
“Of course I am! It’s been hundreds of years! Are you okay?! Did he treat you well?”   
  
“Yeah, I’m - I’m  fine. He was - it was okay.” The lie tastes bad in his mouth, but there’s no way he’s going to tell the truth. Veneziano would be disgusted, he knows. All he really wants is to have his little brother’s love again. Just for a while.   
  
Vene has heard the rumours - it’s impossible not to hear them - but chose to ignore them. Nobody wants to believe their brother is being forced into something like that. “Did you miss me? I missed you!”   
  
“You haven’t changed at all, have you, fratellino?” He smiles faintly and pulls back as far as the tight grip will allow, wanting a look at his face. “Still crying at the drop of a hat.” Romano ignores the fact that his face is pretty damp too. “Of course I missed my little brother, idiot.”   
  
“Um, I have kind of changed in one thing,” Vene confides in him, looking a little bit nervous. “Or more like I realised it? I don’t - I’m not a man, I’ve never felt like one anyway. I’m - can you call me stuff without using he?”   
  
“So you want, what, she?”   
  
“No, no, no! I’m not a woman either! I’m - I’m not really either! Uh, ‘they’ feels better to me?” They’re laughing and crying and their arms are really starting to feel tight - too tight.   
  
“Yeah, I’ll use ‘they’ for you,” he quickly agrees before pulling out of the hug.   
  
Vene looks hurt and guilt twists inside him. After a moment of panicked thought, he grabs their hand and squeezes. “I came out to walk,” he explains. “You can walk with me if you want.”   
  
Veneziano squeezes back, a smile on their face again. “Walking with you sounds great. I’ve missed you so so so so  _ so _ much, Roma!”   
  
He pulls them in closer just long enough to rise up on tiptoes - when  _ the fuck _ did they get so tall? - and kiss their temple, now that the top of their head is no longer an option. “I missed you too, you little idiot. Come on.”   
  
It’s bizarre how easy it feels to slip back into their old endearments, their old dynamic. But their kind have long memories, after all. Even after so long, their past is stronger than they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veneziano is the "what even is a gender, I don't have time for gender, I have ART and FOOD" flavour of agender.  
> Also I'm not nonbinary myself, so if I've got anything not-quite-right/get it not-right in future, I'd appreciate it if someone who is would give me a heads up?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for drug abuse and facing past trauma.

“ _Romano_ ,” Veneziano whines. “You _promised!_ You said you wouldn’t start this up again!”   
  
Romano is not being very good conversation. His body shows all the reasons why; his pupils are tiny; his breathing slow; he’s barely moving. The thick sweet smell that assaults Veneziano the moment they step into this house is another pretty obvious clue.   
  
He slowly lifts his head, looking at his sibling without really seeing them. It always splits Veneziano’s heart to see him like this. On the one hand, he’s never this relaxed, never this - they wouldn’t call it happy, but at least _not-miserable?_ \- never untroubled like this, not without the drug taking it all away. On the other, it isn’t hard to see how _damaging_ it is in the long run. Not only is this habit expensive, but they’ve seen him when his veins run dry, when the happy fog evaporates, when the haze leaves his eyes, and it is far from pretty.   
  
Veneziano shakes their head. “I love you, Roma, but why do you keep _doing_ this?” they sigh to themself, stepping over their brother’s sprawled-out legs and going to throw open the window. They’d been away on a diplomatic visit to Spain for long enough that they didn’t know how far Romano had gone this time. Still, at least this time he hadn’t slipped into a _public_ place to do this. They didn’t much like the idea of going back down into one of _those places_ and seeing all the effect that this _horrid_ drug had on normal human beings. At least their brother’s body would recover fairly quickly.   
  
The next few days are hell. Romano won’t sleep; he can’t even stay still for longer than a few minutes. He’s tearing himself apart. Veneziano catches him tugging on his hair, pinching the skin at his hips, scratching down his arms until there are raised red welts going from wrist to elbow. Whenever they catch him doing it, they stop, take his hands in their own, and just try to ground him in the moment before giving him some task to do - something like kneading dough that doesn’t take much _thought_ but means he doesn’t have to stand still. When they think he’s finally able to be sat down for a proper talk, they come out with the question that has been burning inside them ever since he first started… this.   
  
“Romano, I love you, you know I do, but why are you doing this to yourself? You can’t keep on with it. It’s - I’m worried about you.”   
  
He can’t make eye contact, instead fiddling with the threadbare cuff of his sleeve. It’s been fiddled with until it’s almost falling apart, to the point where he can pick out and pull on the individual threads, now. He still can’t throw this shirt away. It may be old and worn and hopelessly out of fashion now, but… it’s the one he wore that first night _home_ . It’s relaxed and lost the stiff newness, there are stains from sweat and food ingrained in the fabric, but it’s solid and grounding.  Romano focuses on a smear of green on the edge of his cuff rather than meeting his sibling’s eyes. Vene might be saying they love him _now_ , but how long would that last? They can’t know the truth. They _can’t_ .   
  
“Roma, _please_ … I don’t _understand_ why you keep doing this.”   
  
The gentle pleading in their voice makes guilt block his throat. He swallows, mouth dry and chest tight. He lifts his loose fist to cover his face, fingers resting on his nose and lightly gnawing on his thumb. It’s safer not to be seen.   
  
“You won’t,” he finally replies, speaking down at his knees. “You won’t love me any more.” His whisper rings with the firm certainty of a long-held fear.   
  
“You’re my _brother_ , Roma,” they insist. “I’ve done all this for you! Nothing’s made me love you any less! _Please_ , I need to know why you keep - keep _hurting_ yourself like this!” Their voice cracks and breaks, twisting the knife of guilt deeper in Romano’s chest.   
  
His teeth catch on an old scab. He tastes blood.   
  
He begins his story, painting a picture with broad strokes. He tries to distance himself, but it’s _hard_ . The story stays blurry. Every so often, he flicks his eyes up to his sibling’s face, terrified of the revulsion or hatred or, worst of all, _pity_ that he will see there.   
  
It takes an eternity to choke out his confession, and he’s still hiding the full truth of how _filthy_ he really is.   
  
“Oh, _Roma_ …” Veneziano breathes at the end of it all. “Can - can I hug you? Is that okay? I - I’m so sorry! If I’d _known_ , I would’ve - I could’ve-”   
  
All Romano can do is nod and make the tiniest gesture with his arms. Veneziano engulfs him in a hug, saying nothing of the wetness seeping through their shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I know it's been a while. This chapter was really hard to write, especially given the themes I'm using. I want to be sure I'm not treating serious matters too lightly. Plus some factors in Real Life contributed to a lack of motivation with my writing. I guess my thanks in getting this finished want to go to the lovely people on the Spamano Discord server.


	4. Chapter 4

Veneziano walks into the meeting hall with a face like thunder. They  _ glare _ at Turkey and all of those seated at the table get chills down their spine as they are suddenly reminded of Venice’s proud history. Turkey himself gets flashbacks to the crushing defeats dealt to him by the Venetian navy.   
  
Romano steps quietly just behind their shoulder. He has a light summer scarf around his neck and he’s rubbing the fabric anxiously through his fingers, eyes trained on the dark suit serving as his shield. He’s mostly recovered from the drugs and looks physically healthy, but he’s still jittery. When he and his sibling take their seats, he bounces his knee and taps on the table with his fingers.    
  
Then he sees  _ him _ .   
  
Vene is friendly with him at first, cheerfully greeting him from across the room. Spain is about to walk over, but then he catches sight of Romano behind them. His eyes widen slightly - Romano hasn’t left his borders since he first returned to them, not until now - and he takes a step back, quickly going to find someone else to talk to.   
  
He ducks his head down, hunches his shoulders, pulls the scarf up to hide everything from his nose downwards. He is trapped. No matter how much he wants to run out - to go and find somewhere he can settle this restless craving for the sweet fog that makes everything soft and safe - he can’t. Everyone would stare. He’d be  _ exposed _ to so many pairs of eyes. And Veneziano would follow. He wouldn’t get anywhere with them in tow, and they’d just get that concerned look again, the one that made him shift guiltily where he stood or sat for being such a terrible older brother.    
  
“Roma?” Vene whispers, lightly touching his arm. “Are you okay?”   
  
He’s not, it’s obvious he’s  _ far _ from okay. Veneziano knows they’ve not had the whole truth, but this just hammers it in.    
  
He gives a minute shake of his head, able to trust them enough to see this vulnerability.   
  
“Do you need a moment alone? I can excuse us if we need to-”   
  
He shakes his head, more firmly this time. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him, it’s safer to stay in his seat where everyone can overlook him. He can at least pretend that nobody is staring. It helps that Spain and Turkey have both gone to seat themselves at the far side of the room. Veneziano’s protective glares are keeping everyone’s eyes pointedly averted. After a while of dull talk, he’s even beginning to relax, which is not something that can be said for the  _ rest _ of the room around him. Everyone else is very much aware of what little North Italy can do when pushed. They’re all aware of the history, and even Turkey has his scars from the Venetian Navy.   
  
Of course, they can’t start anything, not here, and not now, but that doesn’t mean Vene has to lie down and simply let what has been done to their brother pass. They don’t like violence, not at all, but if there’s one thing their long life has taught them, it’s that sometimes? It’s necessary.    
  
Romano tries to be attentive to what’s said and agreed throughout the week, and he comes out of his shell just enough afterwards for the socialising drinks and canapes at the end to be  _ tolerable _ , but he still ducks out of it less than halfway through. It’s funny how, even now, the tiniest little thing can make his control snap and send him hurtling back to those incense-perfumed halls where his every step clinked and chimed. He likes to think he’s got more control over himself, but when his sibling finds him, he’s on his knees in a hidden corner with a foul-smelling puddle in front of him. They rub his back, carefully lead him away, and don’t leave him on his own again for the whole night. They don’t ask what it was that set it off. Romano isn’t going to volunteer the information.   
  
After all, mint tea is such an innocuous thing.


	5. Chapter 5

I shouldn't have left you guys hanging so long. A few things got in the way, and really I just fell out of love with the hetalia fandom. Or rather, the culture of this fandom has soured me on being a creator for it any more. If you follow me on tumblr, you've probably already seen my official retirement post, which earnt me a pretty decent amount of (promptly deleted and ignored) anon messages. If not, the post is right [here.](http://learninghowtosmut-side.tumblr.com/post/173331040198/im-done)

I genuinely did want to finish this off, and I still had so much planned for this story, but honestly? The people in this fandom need to change and learn to love their creators or we're all going to migrate to communites who will give feedback without being begged for it.

To those of you who have left feedback and comments in the past, thank you. I treasure them all, and you for leaving them. I've noticed every single one and they all left me with a smile.

To those of you who read my hard work and closed out without spending a couple of seconds to give even the smallest token of appreciation? You're the problem. Change your ways or you'll be seeing a hell of a lot more things like this.

If you want to talk to me, drop an ask into my tumblr inbox, anon is back on. If not, well, that's nothing new.


End file.
